


A Smile Sweeter than Cake

by roxyryoko



Series: Drabbles in the Dark [20]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Baking, F/M, Gen, Mercedes Weekend (Fire Emblem), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sibling dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:15:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24708949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxyryoko/pseuds/roxyryoko
Summary: Cyril tries to bake a cake for Lysithea's birthday, but reading the recipe is proving difficult. Luckily, Mercedes arrives to help.
Relationships: Cyril & Lysithea von Ordelia, Cyril & Mercedes von Martritz, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Series: Drabbles in the Dark [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590193
Comments: 16
Kudos: 60
Collections: Those Who Drabble in the Dark





	A Smile Sweeter than Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my late fic for Mercedes weekend and my 20th fic for the prompts on the Felannie server. This one was Major Arcana so I chose the Hierophant to represent teaching. 
> 
> Thank you Kaerra for Beta reading!

Cyril raked his fingers through his hair and released a frustrated groan. Between his elbows rested _Sweet Delights to Delight_ , the recipe book Ashe had eagerly recommended. Ashe had also eagerly offered his baking expertise and aid, but Cyril, of course, refused. After all, this was a job he had to do himself. Toiling with his own two hands was the only possible way to express his gratitude and compensate Lysithea for all her assistance over the last few moons.

However, as stubborn as Cyril was to repay his own debts, he was beginning to regret not taking Ashe up on the offer. He squinted his eyes, further scrutinizing the instructions for the chocolate frosting. A mysterious combination of letters tested him every third word or so, causing him to stumble over each sentence, resulting in baffling gibberish. He had made great strides in reading comprehension under Lysithea’s stern regimen, yet this recipe book was much more difficult than the volume of nursery rhymes he’d borrowed. Even when he spoke aloud a confounding word in an attempt to decipher its meaning, he still could only fathom a guess a quarter of the time.

Another labored groan spilled from his lips and he buried his face into the nook of his elbow. The satisfaction of doing a task himself was not as strong as his pride in having it done right. Lysithea deserved the best. She deserved to smile in that entrancingly beautiful, proud way that she always did whenever he triumphed over a complexing new passage in the books they read together. Just the thought of witnessing her bright eyes alight with pleasure as she swallowed bite after bite of _his_ cake brought a flush to his cheeks. Such a reaction from her would be a soothing balm to any wound to his ego. 

He’d begrudgingly decided to locate Ashe when the kitchen door swung open. Cyril bolted upright, desperate to appear alert and productive. After all, he couldn’t allow anyone to report to Lady Rhea that he was slacking off.

With a sharp snap he turned and a worried Mercedes stared back at him. Quickly, her lips quirked into the gentlest of smiles.

“I’m sorry, Cyril,” she said. “I hope I didn’t wake you from another nap.”

“Heya, Mercie,” he greeted, relaxing. “Nah, ya didn’t. The library’s for sleeping. Got work to do in here.”

“Oh, I see. Then I hope I’m not a bother.” Mercedes crossed the room and set a basket down on the counter. 

She pulled up her sleeves and fetched an apron from a hook by the door. Tying it snugly around her waist, she turned back to Cyril, beaming merrily. 

“Annie passed her Bishop certification. She’s simply delighted. I thought I’d bake her a batch of raisin cookies to celebrate. You’re welcome to have some when they’re finished.”

His brow drew. Despite the temptation, it didn’t seem right to indulge in sweets meant for others. However, Mercedes always offered them so readily to everyone, no prejudice between noble or commoner, student or refugee. Although he didn’t have much experience to compare, her treats were the best he’d ever tasted. 

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She nodded. He contemplated a little longer before grinning—such niceties were still so foreign. 

“Oh, all right then. Thanks. That’s real nice of you, Mercie.”

Mercedes’s smile blossomed radiantly. “It’s my pleasure.”

She then set off to retrieve various pans, bowls, utensils, and ingredients from the drawers, hooks, and pantry shelves. Cyril watched her mill about the kitchen, often catching her brows furrowing and a thoughtful finger tapping at her lips as she scavenged around for certain items. Although she seemed scattered, buzzing back and forth to locations she already visited in repetition, her progress made Cyril acutely aware of his current predicament. With a frown, he poured back over his book, trying yet again to decipher the nonsensical text. 

In the lowest voice he could muster, he sounded out those foreign words. “St-eye-rr…ster? Stir? Stir the co-co-ah…pow-d-er with the bu-but-ter. Butter!” 

Pleased with decoding at least one ingredient, a proud grin stretched across his lips as he hurried to the pantry to retrieve it, deciding ‘co-co-ah’ powder would have to remain a mystery a little longer.

Cyril was just about to pull the container off the shelf when he heard Mercedes exclaim in a soft, breathy voice, “Oh!” A clatter followed immediately after.

Quickly, he turned to find her stooped over the open oven, several pieces of firewood tucked haphazardly under her arm, a few threatening to escape and join the log resting next to her foot.

“Everything okay there, Mercie?” he asked, concern saturating his tone.

She glanced up at him. A piece of wood slipped from her arms and she barely managed to stop its descent. 

Replacing it atop the pile, she replied, “It’s nothing really. I just didn’t notice someone was using the oven.”

“Ah, thata be me,” he admitted, leaving the butter behind and shuffling around Mercedes to inspect the cake. 

It had been cooking awhile now and, unfortunately, he had lost track of time while engrossed with the icing instructions. The process of rounding up the ingredients and following the correct procedure for the batter had been just as equally puzzling as his current task. Cyril valued a job well done more than anything, but lacked confidence that this experiment attested to that steadfast quality.

The acrid smell that poured out from the open oven proved anything but a job well done had been accomplished. Badly charred around the edges, the cake remained liquid at the center, a lumpy, gooey, bubbly concoction. Cyril didn’t know much about baking, but he’d spied successful creations enough times while sweeping and mopping the kitchen floors to know that didn’t look right.

“Or at least, I’m tryin’ ta,” he amended.

Mercedes pulled the tray out for a closer look, and inquired, “Did Lady Rhea or one of the knights assign you this as a job?”

He shook his head and frowned at the cake. “Nah, I’m doing it ‘cause it’s Lysithea’s birthday today and I owe her. Wanted to surprise her, ya know?” 

Mercedes’s face lit up, a benevolent smile adorning it. “That’s very sweet of you, Cyril. I’m certain she’ll appreciate the thought.” She then glanced back at the cake with a sympathetic expression. “Pardon me for saying this, but—”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed, beating her to the truth. “I sure made a mess of it. I wasted a buncha supplies too.”

She laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t worry so much about that. Failed attempts like this are just part of the process. Take me for instance. I’ve had so many more mishaps than successes. Especially when it comes to spices. But I’m confident that if you keep trying you’ll definitely improve.” Her eyes locked on the open recipe book. “Why don’t we bake a second cake together? I’m sure it will go much smoother.”

“Well, I really don’t wanna trouble ya, and I’d rather do it myself.” 

Her lips drew into a small pout. A similar expression burdening Lysithea’s features flashed across his mind, quickly emboldening his determination to make Lysithea smile. 

Cyril sighed, “But I am havin’ an awful hard time and I really wanna do it right ‘cause I really want Lysithea to like it.”

Mercedes shook her head. “It’s no trouble at all, and if you really insist on doing all the work yourself then that’s just what we’ll do. I’ll leave most of the prep work and mixing to you and I’ll just observe and offer guidance.”

“All right,” Cyril relented. “Thanks a bunch, Mercie.”

Mercedes bounced with glee. “Oh, I’m so excited! This is going to be so much fun!”

Not wasting any time, she removed the disastrous cake from the oven and placed new firewood onto the pit. 

Once those tasks were complete, she turned to Cyril, saying, “Now as the oven gets nice and hot, let’s gather the ingredients, shall we?”

Cyril trekked back to the book and Mercedes followed close behind.

“What’s first on the list?” she asked sweetly, leaning over his shoulder, eyeing the open page.

Cyril’s eyes scrunched up as he looked at the text. He suddenly felt self-conscious, but willed confidence into his voice as he read, “Two cups of flow-your.”

Mercedes giggled. “Flour,” she corrected.

A humiliated flush burned his cheeks. “I thought…Isn’t that spelled different?”

Mercedes’s brows wrinkled a moment before they relaxed, understanding sweeping over her. She smiled, sliding into a mentorship role with ease, and pointed to the word on the page. 

“The baking kind is spelled f-l-o-u-r,” she explained, “but the plant kind is spelled f-l-o-w-e-r.”

“Oh,” he muttered. The way she spoke was gentle and nonjudgmental, soothing the anxiety bubbling in his chest. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “All right, I got it now.”

“No worries. You haven’t practiced baking before so it’s no wonder you haven’t seen that spelling. It’s only natural to be confused.” Her features shifted suddenly, a distant look in her eye. She then twirled around the room, looking all around. 

She mused contemplatively, “Now where was that flour? I swear I saw it just a second ago.”

The search for flour seemed a suitable distraction to help shake off Cyril’s embarrassment. After a quick inspection, he found the large burlap sack containing the supply leaning against a wall in the pantry. He pointed it out, announcing, “It’s over there, Mercie.”

Mercedes stopped rummaging through a cabinet and tracked his finger. Once she spotted the sack, she sheepishly giggled, “Ah, there it is!” 

She walked over to the bag, but then abruptly turned back, scooting past Cyril as he reached the pantry. She fetched two measuring cups from the counter and handed them to Cyril when she returned. Bending over, she fumbled with the tie of the sack, and jerked it open. A cloud of white billowed into the air, sending them into coughing fits. The top of the bag slipped from her fingers and flour spilled out onto the ground.

“Oh, dear,” Mercedes muttered as she lurched to pull it up. 

Once righted, she allowed Cyril to measure out the correct proportions, and then she secured the bag. As they returned to their station she patted down her skirt, trying and failing to brush the flour away.

“See?” she laughed. “Mistakes are bound to happen while baking. Though I admit, I’m pretty clumsy so maybe I make a bit more than most.”

As Cyril sat the cups of flour down, Mercedes fetched a large bowl.

“What’s next?” she inquired. “Sugar?”

Cyril studied the recipe. “Yeah! And salt, too.”

“We have those right here,” Mercedes said as she pulled two smaller burlap sacks across the counter. 

She glanced at the recipe and stepped away, inviting Cyril to take her place with a gesture to the bowl. “You can do the honors of mixing them together. Just these three for now.”

Cyril nodded and then dumped the first cup of flour into the bowl, followed swiftly by the second. He then scooped up several cups of sugar, adding them to the mix. As he began to pour a third cup, a quick glance back at the recipe caused him to pause. With a jerk, he turned the cup upright, but half of the contents had already fallen into the bowl.

He frowned and lamented, “Ah, I messed up a whole lot again, Mercie. I put in a buncha sugar, and it says here to put in only two cups.”

Mercedes offered an empathetic smile and scrutinized the contents of the bowl for a moment. “I don’t think it's enough to be a problem,” she assessed. “And I’m positive Lysithea won’t mind the extra sugar.”

“But I gotta do it right, the way it says.”

“Sometimes accidents are happy ones. I can’t imagine anyone complaining about a cake being a little extra sweet.” She laughed, breathily. “Well, except Felix, but don’t mind him.”

Her laughter eased his worries a bit. She was right and he knew it. He had seen Lysithea ferry away more than one person’s fair share of desserts from the dining hall on many occasions. She always looked so happy when sweets were in close proximity and her odd worries about time seemed to slip away as she baked. Cyril liked watching her work, often distracted by her grace and bright expression when he was supposed to be studying vocabulary or reading aloud in her company. She often would offer him a slice—a much smaller portion than the one she procured for herself—so he could attest that being easy on the sugar was not a rule she lived by.

“All right, I guess I oughta trust you on this,” Cyril agreed. “You’re the expert and all.”

Reassured by Mercedes' guidance, he brought his attention back to the recipe. This ingredient had confused him the most the first time around, and he'd guessed at the meaning, no doubt sentencing his cake to the afterlife. Cyril just couldn’t wrap his head around the notation of the diagonal line that separated the numbers one and four. Still, he reached for the spoon that a cook earlier informed him represented the baffling letter combination of “tbsp” and scooped out a heaping helping of salt from the appropriate sack. Soon enough the crystalline granules had joined the flour and sugar.

Suddenly, Mercedes fretted, “Oh dear. Was that salt? That might be a problem.”

Cyril frowned deeply. Lysithea’s hands weren’t meant for chopping wood and his apparently weren’t meant for baking cakes.

“What d’ya mean?” he asked, turning to find her biting her lip. She quickly shifted to a reassuring smile.

“You just added a bit too much, but not to worry, we can fix this.” 

After gathering up the bowl and one of the measuring cups, Mercedes wandered back over to the flour sack, this time opening it with caution. 

“Too much, you say?” Cyril drawled. He looked at the spoon in confusion. “I don’t get it. I coulda sworn this spoon was the t-b-s-p thing.” 

“Ah,” said Mercedes as she scooped out four cups of flour and added them to the mixing bowl. “I see what happened.” The bag was soon secured again and she returned to Cyril’s side, placing the bowl, now three-quarters full of powders onto the counter.

“Just add four cups of sugar,” she instructed. “And we’ll be right back where we need to be.”

Cyril obeyed, carefully measuring out each cup and pouring it in.  
  
Once he finished, Mercedes tapped her finger on the book, pointing to one article of the ingredient list that read “4 tbsp of cocoa powder.” 

“They look similar when abbreviated, but see?” she gently explained. “T- _b_ -s-p stands for tablespoon, but for the salt we needed a teaspoon.” She lifted a much smaller spoon and held it out for Cyril. He took it and examined it. “That’s abbreviated t-s-p.” 

With another tap of her finger, she signaled to the “1/4 tsp of salt” he had read earlier.

“Oh,” he sighed, feeling defeated. “I’m really no good at this, am I?”

Mercedes dusted off her hands. “Don’t say that. You’re learning and I’m sure you won’t make the same mistake again. Besides, now Lysithea will have an extra special birthday with three cakes to enjoy! Or, if you wanted, you could give one to Lady Rhea. I’m sure she’d appreciate that ever so much.”

Cyril grinned. “Yeah, you’re right, Mercedes. I sure would like to do something nice for Lady Rhea if I can. And maybe I can give the third cake to some of the kids around here. Ya oughta share if ya got extra, I think.”

“That’s a lovely idea!” Mercedes opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out two extra pans. 

New goals in mind, the two quickly finished preparing the batter. Cyril was a bit nervous after so many fumbles, but Mercedes assured him she would pay extra close attention so no more mistakes occurred—she insisted the salt mishap was entirely her fault. Whenever he stumbled over a foreign word, she offered hints to guide him to correct pronunciation—she even pronounced that befuddling ‘cocoa’ word for him—and as time went on, his pride swelled with all the words he learned how to read that day.

Mercedes babied him a bit, but Cyril didn’t mind being treated like a little brother so much. She made the time fly by with merriment and fun. It was actually nice to feel such a bond, to feel cared for by another, and it made him happy to see Mercedes happy, even if a little bit of sorrow crept into the corners of her smile. He didn’t bother to ask about it. Everyone had their own troubles and Cyril knew that all too well. 

Soon all three cakes were placed into the oven to bake.

Cyril immediately proceeded to tidy up the mess they had created, returning the salt, sugar, and other ingredients back to their proper locations. Mercedes stacked the bowls and utensils together but when she gripped the wooden spoon they had used to combine the liquids and solids, she turned to him and held it out.

She beamed, “Now the fun part! We can lick the batter! You’ve more than earned it.”

Cyril raised an eyebrow, watching the chocolate liquid drip from the base of the spoon down the handle and over her fingers. With a shake of his head, he refused the offer. “Nah, I’m good. I oughta do these chores while them cakes bake. Got that flour to clean up, too.” 

“Oh,” she breathed, something akin to pity in her tone. “Well, please let me help you then.”

“Nah, I got it. I said I’d clean the kitchen in exchange for using it, so I gotta do it anyway.”

Mercedes dismissed his protest with a small shake of her head and that stationary smile.

“Nonsense, I enjoy cleaning. So it’s really no trouble at all.” She pushed the oozing spoon forward. Some of the chocolate dripped onto the floor. “But first, I think you should spare a moment to indulge. When I baked with my mother or little brother we couldn’t wait to lick the batter. I think of it as a tradition now.”

“Well, if you say so,” he relented. 

Cyril accepted the spoon. Mercedes watched expectantly as he licked one corner of it clean. It tasted rich and sweet and delicious. He smiled and smacked his lips, searching for escaped chocolate.

Mercedes laughed, “Like it?”

“Yeah, it’s real tasty!” he praised.

“Then we know the cakes will turn out wonderful!”

The kitchen door swept open and a voice gushed, “Something smells absolutely divine!” 

Cyril and Mercedes turned to find a wide-eyed, slightly ravenous Lysithea skipping into the room. She sniffed deeply, taking in the scrumptious aroma of the baking treats.

Internally Cyril panicked. 

Fortunately, Mercedes was quick on her feet. “Yes, we’re making a few cakes,” she said. “And in just a minute, I’m going to start some cookies too. They will probably be done a little quicker if you would like some.”

“I’d never say no to sweets!” Lysithea chirped. Then an odd expression stretched across her face as she asked, “Who are the cakes for?”

“Oh, Lady Rhea and the orphans around the monastery.” Mercedes retrieved a rolling pin from one of the cabinets.

Lysithea sulked, clearly disappointed. “Oh, how…commendable.”

Something painful panged Cyril’s heart. Lysithea was always so pretty when she smiled, but she was doing the opposite now. Those dispirited eyes were impossible to bear, and Cyril decided in a split second that he had to fix that. 

“Hey, Lysithea,” Cyril called, grabbing her attention. “One of them cakes is for ya, ‘cause it’s ya birthday.”

Lysithea’s eyes went wide and her lips parted in a sharp intake of breath. Softly, she said, “Cyril…you remembered?”

“Of course, I did! You deserve a whole lot more than this but I wanted to say thanks for teaching me how to read. I know it’s gotta be a whole lot of work, but I really like learning from ya.” Heat rose on his neck and he paused to wet his lips. “Betcha been hearing this all day, but Happy Birthday, Lysithea.” 

He held out the spoon. “And if ya hungry now and wanna, you can lick some of the batter.”

Lysithea’s cheeks turned bright red and she recoiled back a few paces. Mercedes covered a giggle. 

“N-no thank you!” Lysithea stammered, fiddling with a fistful of her uniform skirt. Cyril raised a brow in confusion, but lowered the spoon with a shrug. 

Shyly, she glanced up at him, eyelashes concealing some of her rose quart irises. In a sweet voice she added, “But, uh, I’d love the cake when it’s done. Thank you so much, Cyril.” 

Then she smiled, wide and pretty, just how Cyril loved.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hang out with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/roxyryoko) if you want!


End file.
